Things did not bode well at all for hashdom on this
particular Monday. A never-ending series of heavy rainstorms had turned any
pre-lay into a gooey, roux-y mess garun-damn-teed, and no one except fire ants would
be able to FIND much less follow marks. But late in the afternoon the clouds
broke, the sun made its first appearance in hours, and it turned out to be
perfect hashing weather as I cycled through several puddles up Carrollton on my
way to the start. So what the hell, at least there was going to be beer. Maybe.

As (bad for the hounds) luck would have it, Tightey Whitey
had relinquished haring duties to none other than Probing Sex Knave, who because
of his tendency to set live meant there would be a trail, although not
necessarily one any sane person would want to attempt. So, confident that everyone
would be out for several hours spread throughout the parish (thanks in part to
the proliferation of marks during chalk talk, I had no idea Knave knew so many
letters), I looked for a likely candidate who’d be lost at my speed. Who showed
up in the form of An*lyzer, so off to his car to drop off my bag. As I set it
down he commented that something was stinking up his trunk. I was about to
apologize for my severe bike-funk when I spied the grocery bag toward the back,
through which I could see, unmistakably, a price sticker for meat. I know
hamburger is dead cow, but I’m telling you, this cow was so fookin’ dead it was
almost alive and *moving*. Green, frothing…we promptly decided to add it to the
hash munchie assortment when the time came, if it ever did, because with a
Knave trail you never know.

Trail:

The pack, which on this day included several strapping young
new boots courtesy of Cum Lick Her, headed from the parking lot toward downtown
paralleling Tulane and after several blocks and checks we crossed Tulane
itself, to the delight of a couple bums on the opposite corner hoping for
casualties. So there we were, Jiggles Low, Penis Colada, J. Whorifist, Tastes
Like Chicken and C-Pot, several game new boots who later turned out not to be entirely
new boots (one bragged he’d been around since run #980), and Cum Squat among
others playing under the freeway on railroad tracks. At this point I must
grudgingly tell you I am always awed at Knave’s knack of finding shiggy in the
most unlikely of places; I’m sure I’ll have P.I. (ivy, not the islands) in a
couple days. We went west under/between onramps, and then after a little
stumbling at a check right at Carrollton, hounds IHOV and her real hound whose
name I forget joined the rest of the pack continuing west.

We emerged from the freeway maze and a very exciting offramp
crossing and from a check began searching for the next marks. On a hunch, I
decided that even Knave wouldn’t take everyone to Metairie, so instead of
continuing west along the freeway sound wall, I opted to cut into the hood. I
ran north a couple blocks, confusing some residents as to why some nappy-headed
gringa would be running there, before turning the direction the pack
went. I glanced over and saw the pack was still at a parallel to me, and so I
turned one more block west and headed north again. And then I saw it: Knave’s
car. Right in front of a bar. Beer!!! Not believing my good fortune, I took one
from the lady behind the not-quite ready bar and watched from behind
dark-tinted windows with a croc-sporting Piston Penis, Head Rice and Sucks ‘Em
Raw as the pack slowly streamed by a couple of blocks away.

As it turned out, they may very well have gone to Metairie:
Trail continued on to the cemeteries (the “dead” portion of “dead meat”), which
ones I don’t know, but a fence hop was involved. At some point Blowing Seamen
got the seat of his pants caught on the cemetery fence and he squirmed for a
while before he got off. I didn’t want the details. It seemed to be about 20
minutes before the pack begin filtering in, and it was rather funny having them
look around at that corner before seeing the BN; at one point new-to-me Just
Franz pointed out the mark on the doorstep but the hounds he was with didn’t
believe him so it took him a bit to come in.

This turned out to be the beer check, so I got a chance to
chat with the proprietors of the soon-to-be Mid City Yacht Club, M.J. and Ben,
as well as Jeremy, a former co-worker of Athlete’s Mouth. I look forward to
quenching my thirst there many a time soon. Plus the park adjacent hosts a
kickball league and has pretty sunflowers.

For the second “half,” Juggling Whorifist and I made like
speed freaks in hot pursuit of the hare, and evidently the local youth had
roughly the same idea because they were pretending to snort the marks. Yeah,
everything’s GREAT here, Nagin. Anyway, had we had another couple miles, we may
have made it, but after tearing the 10-some-odd blocks back to the Rock n’ Bowl
parking lot Knave was putting the finishing touches on his cunning “on back to
the beer check” on back. I don’t know about here, but in Guam the hare is open
to be caught until the run number and On In are set at the end and he or she
takes a sip of beer (in this case impossible). It was damn close though, folks.

Circle:

Hounds were treated to a plethora of chee wees and some Slim
Jims, plus a hitherto unknown Austin hash staple: flour tortillas, peanut
butter and bananas, with a New Orleans lagniappe of Nutella. Don’t knock it
‘til you try it, and several hashers, including Just Trent and several of the
new boots now swear by it. Piston kicked off the ceremonies, which went on for
more than a couple hours and we tag-teamed duties during that time. Cum Lick Her
made about 40, okay at least five, young males from Oklahoma City cum that day,
and seriously, she looked more serene than usual. I don’t know where he found
it, but Piston produced a small can of possum, whose label declared it “tastes
like cheken [sic]” so obviously TLC and CPG drank, and IHOV was the designated
drunk for that evening. I think someone called her Chicken Biscuit. Piston also
passed on a full-trail FRB award – part of a tow package – to
I-don’t-know-what-his-name-is-but-he-works-with-the-Big-Easy-Roller-Girls-so-he’s-Roller-Boy.
For some reason Piston is all over the fashion sense down-downs…socks, no
socks, crocs, mocs…so I had to set him straight and steer the circle toward
things like visitors (Victor/Victoria from Phoenix), the developing romance
between Head Rice and An*lyzer, and birthdays (none this week). Ready Whip
drank for auto-wanking, all the chicks drank for being chicks because the ratio
was so skewed this week – the bulk of the newbies were dubbed Queer Eye, mainly
because of one pair of outrageous plaid pants. And our hosts got a rousing
round of “They’re the Meanest” because that night they definitely were.

I finally reached my limit somewhere between the accusation
for Cum Squat for a rather prodigious display through his standard running
shorts and Knave’s standard mantra, “I have an accusation,” so I made my moves
to depart. As I pedaled away into the night, I faintly heard someone propose a nekkid
wrestling match to christen the place, and I was glad to have left circle when
I did.

And that’s what happened, swear to fookin’ God,

SE

Aside: When you’ve finished reading this, take a moment and
have a good thought for Releash Me and her family. We love you, sweetheart.

Announcements: Don’t forget about the tubing trip June 23 as
the Baton Rouge and NOH3 cum together. Registration forms are available now. Also
save some room on Sunday July 15 for an all-An*l hash. And plans are still on
for a July 28 Big Easy (which will not replace the regular hash that Monday).